


The Molly Diaries

by Penelope1730



Series: The Molly Diaries [1]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 17,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1885122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penelope1730/pseuds/Penelope1730
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly no longer maintains her online blog, opting for a more old-fashioned and private way of recording her thoughts and emotions: a Diary / Journal.  </p><p>This series is set post The Reichenbach Fall. </p><p>***Added to include series 4, The Final Problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Endings and Beginnings

**1 November 2013**

     The celebrations continue. Masks and costumes have been neatly packed away, while children of all ages have consumed enough sweets to crash them into the wall of unprecedented sugar highs. Tokens of tricks can be seen to the observant and not-so-observant eye, so is it any wonder I think of you?

Today's tradition honors the Saints and our dearly departed with specter somberness, lest we forget those who have left an indelible mark upon our lives. The Feast of the Dead. Place-settings at tables stand as sentry with favorite foods in honor of guests who will never arrive. But, for you, flowers and candles are your feast. They litter the sidewalk where my memories remain a strong and persistent heartbeat, although bloodstains have washed away into nothingness. Echoes of you are everywhere and my own part in this ruse does nothing to bring comfort. You would more than likely find my sentiment uncomprehending, but given your sacrifice would you not suspend your judgment and indulge my grief?

I should be a conundrum to Tom, but I'm not. He's come to know me as funny and a good conversationalist. I have no memory of your laughter, but I want to believe you'd find his idea of me amusing. What wouldn't I do to have one more precious moment with you...to see the flash of life settle within your eyes.

I sense you're alive and feel you close, but there's nothing, only the rain and ghostly reminders. Oh, god, how I miss you.

________________________________

**2 November 2013**

     I remember being a little girl and playing on the merry-go-round with my school mates. Jeremy Pilkington, a boy two years older than me, spun us so fast and for so long I lost all sense of Me. I'm not sure where I went, but I could see my body on the wheel ride, eyes closed, queasy stomach and hanging on for dear life. It felt like it took forever to be able to walk again, with my teacher's soothing voice reminding me to set my eyes upon the horizon to get my bearings. All the while, my muscles refused to cooperate with my brain's commands and I felt myself crash against the cold earth, stars twinkling behind my eyes before drifting off into darkness.

That happened today. The merry-go-round is a fragile construct of the life I had built the past two years and you...why is it always YOU...the gravitational force that spins me out of control and pulls me into your orbit from which there is no inevitable release. I watched myself looking at you, wondering if you were real, my eyes open but shut tight, breath withheld, wanting to speak and finding no words. I feel like I've been hurled into a million pieces of centrifugal chaos and deposited in a chasm of uncertainty. I somehow managed a constraint smile that matched yours and I'm sure you spoke, offered some reassuring words about your return. Did I breathe? I can't remember. But, I remember the cool spiciness of your aftershave, the light reflecting off your hair, the fine lines on your beautiful face and a longing in your eyes I had never before seen. I remember the warmth of your gentle hands and how your coat felt against my body as you pulled me along side yours. You held me, I'm sure of it. I remember you called my name, asking if I was alright. What did I say? Where did I go?

All I know is that my knees have buckled under me and I desperately search the horizon for some balance.

_______________________________________________

**3 November 2013**

**2:30 am**

     Well, there’s no sleeping tonight. My mind has been racing and I can’t seem to find any thoughts to bring about calm. This diary has been my confessor, the silent counselor that knows my deepest secrets, all the thoughts and words that must never be whispered or inferred. These pages have carried a load that has far too often felt unbearable; the truth about you, what you’re doing and why...the grief stricken faces of those who love you, those who continue to struggle for answers and search for some kind of peace. I doubt you’d understand how much you’re loved, and wonder if you would even care.

I did something tonight that I never do. I prayed. No, not to some mythical god-like deity born from man’s imagination, but maybe the Universe? The stars? The energy force that binds us all together? I don’t know. Then again, I looked upon Quan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy, and prayed for John’s well-being. Why do I worry so? Seeing you again is a good thing – a happy thing – but there’s a panic within me that refuses to yield. I prayed you were easy with John – you have no idea what your death has done to him; to everyone. And, now, very much unlike the allegory of Plato’s Cave, it’s doubtful you’ll understand the frailty of emotions at your resurrection. I know these spiritual references would affront your logical sensibilities, but could you please, maybe, not be You? Am I too late?

Now, on to other business, some things you should know: I’m engaged to Tom. I never shared that with you. He asked and a stranger disguised as me said ‘yes.’ He’s kind and decent and never really asks much of me. He’s got a dog named Boston, whom I love. Maybe that’s why I said ‘yes’? Boston is a flat coat retriever who instantly knew me. He senses me, understands me and I am so grateful he’s not here as I write this. I’m afraid he sees me too clearly and I know I wouldn’t like what’s being reflected. In a way, Boston is similar to you…not much gets by him.

I don’t want you to see me too clearly right now, either. I don’t want your eyes telling me what I already suspect. Will you please let me have this? I know the day will come, but until then, allow it to remain unspoiled. I do love him, especially his simplicity. You might find this surprising, but I never speak of you. Still, Tom knows you were somehow a part of a life I’ve chosen to bury. He’s been patient with my melancholic moods, although doesn’t understand where they come from. Except for Boston – he always knows. This must count for something?

I can hear you now, finding all of this tedious, and reminding me that relationships, like conversation, are not my area. No one will ever be you, and for all the times I wished it weren’t so…it’s always been you. I want so badly to be free of your hold. I wonder if I have what it takes? I can love you from a distance, can’t I? In the quiet moments shared with no one - only the shadow of you that follows me everywhere.

Like the thousands of unspoken words that come easily to me in reflection, the pages of my diary are conversations you and I will never have. I’ve learned the extraordinary art of censoring myself and even when you think you see or know something about me, it’s only what I want you to see. I’ve learned to appease you – it’s so much easier when you think you’ve gotten your way. And, I don’t mind. I’d rather see you happy – or what passes as happiness. I will always be here for you. Whatever you need, whenever you need. Always.

I’ve decided, then, this will be our agreement: I will pretend happiness until it becomes real. If you ever ask, I’ll tell you I’m well and things are good. And, for your part, you’ll believe me.


	2. Everything Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post The Final Problem. Molly writes in her diary again after a deeply upsetting phone call from Sherlock. Just a bit of angst.

July 2015

 

     I never expected this would last forever, nothing ever does.

 

     Today it ended, unceremoniously, with three little words. Words that were never intended to be spoken, or received, burst forth like shards of glass to shatter my carefully fashioned defenses and came crashing down around me.

_~ I Love You ~  
_

If I were honest with myself, and there's no reason not to be, we've been racing toward this horizon for a long time...as if it were a contest to see which one of us would get here first. As it happened, we did it together.

I've spent years trying to discover all the reasons that kept me here, in this place I desperately wanted to move on from. At times I thought I found answers, only to realize they provided a temporary pause. But, when you get to the end and look back, you have to ask - does it really matter? Trying to figure it all out, hoping that the information will provide some sense of enlightenment or relief, but it never does. It's been an exhausting, endless loop of chaos - sifting and sorting through what was real and what wasn't...the fine balance of straddling two worlds where all things were possible. Schrödinger's cat is out of the box and it's dead.

He warned me, a long time ago - my hopes were forlorn. What he didn't know is that was a truth I accepted the minute his words were spoken, but denied in equal measure.

What does it mean to love someone? I suppose it can be about intentions and expectations, the mutual exchange of affection and promises. But, perhaps that's the kind of love that limits us, forces us to succumb to external experiences and influences over which we have no control. Does all love need actualization or validation? Can it be enough to open ourselves up to the ineffable - to feel its power and allow ourselves to be carried on its stream for no other reason than the adventure? Is it ever about the other person? Do they come into our life as a long forgotten memory, the turning point in time and space, or a mirrored cheat-sheet helping us to surrender to the mysteries of one's own heart?

_~ Because it's true. It's always been true ~  
_

I can feel it inside me, a flood of tears threatening to expose the cracks of this momentary fragility. But, there's another part that reminds me I'm finally free. I can't help but wonder if that's not the real objective of love - Freedom.  Should that be true, then Love can never be unrequited, but always serves its intended purpose.

It's not necessary and I really don't want it, but there will be a conversation, or the illusion of one. Anything I could possibly say has already been said, and anything he could possibly say I already know. It'll be important to him though... _I love you_ will feel like a lose thread between us, dangling before him, and his need to see it properly disposed of will be a matter of urgency. And, I'll let him have it, because that's what Love does. For all his brilliance, he'll stumble and stammer his way into unknown territory: careful, scared and uncertain. He'll look to me for help, to make it easier for him, but that's not something I can give...not this time. I haven't done this on my own...he knowingly played his part and must see things through to their end.

There's only one thing left unsaid between us; a truth I'll concede and offer: Good-bye.

 

_~ Everything changes, friends move on, life stops for no one ~  
_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been said, which I agree, that Molly's 'I love you' to Sherlock felt like 'good-bye.' At least in that moment, when she didn't know, when everything was uncertain and raw. This seemed like the perfect time to add a tiny blurb to her diary...about what she might have been thinking and feeling.
> 
> Comments are welcome! But, uh, criticisms...well, up to you. This isn't timeless literature and I'm definitely not Emily Dickinson.


	3. What I Thought Was Happening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post The Final Problem - after Molly finds out what happened and the 'talk.'

July 2015

 

_~ What I thought was happening, wasn't what was happening at all ~  
_

 

Day 1: Nothing make sense. Nothing is okay, but I'll pretend until it is.

 

     That should be the title of my personal story for the past five or so years. Still, I'm back in my house - safe and sound. But, not really. I do not feel safe, nor do I feel sound.

There was a bomb and the magic words to prevent me from blowing into a million pieces of bone, blood and sinew were: _I Love You._

The end result was the same. It's over. He and his brother managed me and the aftermath - each from their own objectives. All of it done in the effort to see to my future safety...as if that was in their control.

He is a wordsmith, the genius orchestrator of adjectives and participles that convey his deepest secrets - offered to me in a moment of conciliatory surrender. Whether or not they were true, or an embellishment of what he thought I'd want to hear... Oh, fuck it! Why am I even writing this?

I am lost and there's no one. My dearest and closest gave up on my story with him a very long time ago. They obviously had a better connection to their survival instinct...something that was amiss in me.

So, my bags are packed and for the next month I am accountable to no one. There will be no phone calls or texts asking for help, cleverly disguised as a ruse for some other purpose. I stared at my phone for what seemed like ages, my finger paused over the delete button - an act of erasing him from this one tiny part of my life. I did it - he's gone. His identity obliterated from the technology that minded the strange symbiosis known as us.

I'm off to the hills and the sea...I'm going home to Sussex, the family cottage my father left me upon his death. I called our caretakers, the Wilcox's, and they'll see that the windows are open, the dust and cobwebs given a once go over.

Mrs. Wilcox cried tears of happiness, as though I were the prodigal daughter who's finally seen the light and now understands the likes of London was never met for someone like me. She didn't ask, but can always tell when something's wrong - and she should know, she helped raise me after my own mother died.

I'd take Toby, instead of depositing him with my neighbor...his home away from home, but not sure he's up for it considering everything that's happened. If he survived the car ride without being too traumatized, he'd actually like it there and would never want to return. Maybe I should take him, after all, and both of us can stay there forever. We'll grow old together, and when we die, our remains scattered in the fruit orchard past the apiary.

Bags in car, coffee pot and water kettle unplugged. Voice mail greeting changed to one of the factory, pre-recorded messages. Plants have been given one last watering, and the cat is coming with me. No one important is left behind.

   

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to play with something Sherlock said when he was deducing the coffin intended for Molly: "Distant from close relatives." As we've never been given anything about Molly's personal / family history, this felt like a good opportunity to explore Molly's background...or the one I wanted to give her. :) I also listen to a lot, a lot, a lot of music while writing. The title of this chapter was inspired by a song written by Jackson Browne, covered by Joan Baez, called: Fountain of Sorrow.


	4. Rude Awakenings

3 August 2015

Day 8: Rude awakenings.

     I came here to escape, subject to no one's will but my own, yet found myself being woken this morning by way of a stern scolding from Mrs. Wilcox's heavy Gaelic brogue...an accent that only seems to appear when she's fired up about something or angry. She's normally kind, loving and patient, so much so she came to be my 'Nana.' But, not this morning - she was a demon hound from hell in need of exorcism. I haven't seen this side of her since I was fourteen when she caught my best friend and I smoking behind the stables. And not cigarettes.

I couldn't even make out half of what she shouted, but phrases like:

_"That's enough self-wallowing, missy. I've got no idea what happened to you in that devil town, and not sure I want to, either. I have too many things to do than keep my eye on the likes of you...laying in bed for a week sleeping, not eating,...in my day, this would never pass. No one had time! Now get yer wee self up, before I send Taid up here to do it for ya. Lingering all these days like that will change anything..."_

Her words shattered the only real peace I've had in months. I couldn't move...it felt like all my muscles had atrophied in the shape of a curved, protected shell and the best I was able to do was sob.

Nana sat along side me and offered some words of comfort. But, mostly, she told me to take a bath because I 'stunk up the room' and she couldn't properly listen while holding her breath. She then added she'd have to wash my sheets in boiling water and leave them hanging in the sun for several day just to get rid of the stench from a broken heart. She exaggerates...one day in the sun should be fine.

She always makes it sound so simple: _It's just as easy to cry while doing something, as it is to do nothing. Nothing takes you nowhere and nowhere is a place where the dark fairies don't easily let go._

Nana loves her fairy lore...

I soaked in the warm, lavender scented bath, letting memories drain from me as tear drops into the water. When I finally made it down to the kitchen I was met with happy and relieved smiles; I had no idea how worried Nana and Taid were.

There were fresh berry scones sitting on the table, along with a fat, juicy honey cone Taid had collected earlier from the hive. There was no denying I was hungry...even the jeans that hung loosely around my hips were evident of this.

We sat the garden, drinking tea, where the sun's rays felt like healing balm, and Nana mended Taid's jumper. I was torn between lifting my face to the sky and basking, or eating - until I remembered I could do both. Once she was done mending, Nana took it upon herself to start combing out the long, heavily matted tangles in my hair. Ouch! Note to self: sleeping for a week with un-braided hair does not end well.

So, I cut it. Not all of it, but some.

 _'In my day,'_ Nana began, _'We'd cut off an inch of hair, so we'd always remember stories never end, but take a winding road. This is your part of the road, Margaret, and if it was important, it leaves a mark worth remembering.'_ No one's called me Margaret in forever.

I went into the house, not understanding what hair has to do with roads and memory, but brought back the kitchen sheers nonetheless. I asked Nana to take six inches...there was a lot to remember. She reached into the flower vase and pulled off the stem from a tall daisy to wrap around my hair. Then I heard the scissors - another piece of this story tended to. ' _We'll find a nice box for it later,'_ she said, as she placed the white flower head on top of the gathered strand.

I stayed there for hours, in the garden, and didn't even notice the sun beginning to set until Taid brought me my phone.

Phone.

I tossed it on the table, with the charger, when I arrived and then forgot all about it. There was no one I wanted to speak with anyway.

The blue light flashed like a strobe, reminding me of my negligence. Truthfully, I wanted to leave it alone, or better yet, power it off. But, habits can be endemic, and not easily remedied in one week - best not to try changing things all at once.

One text from Meena: _How's country life? Had enough yet?_

Meena loved London, all of it, but most especially the clubs. Once in a while she'd lower her standards and meet us at a pub...special occasions like the time we met Tom's brothers so they could celebrate our engagement. She found it quaint.

Five missed calls from John and one voice message from four days ago: _Molly, it's John. Haven't heard from you...give a ring, okay?_

One message from Mrs. Hudson from this morning: _Molly, I have no idea what's going on with these boys. I came to the flat because of all the construction, and clean up, it's just atrocious! John was shouting at Sherlock because he's worried about you and Sherlock's being his usual daft self and not talking. Did something happen? Give John a call, won't you, dear? Oh, and this place is such a mess. Can you believe it, a grenade going off in Baker street, just when I was done vacuuming. I'm so glad everyone's okay._

What!? A grenade?

I will not get sucked back in. I will not get sucked back in. I will not get sucked back in. Repeat as needed.

Everyone's okay. That's good. Oh my god, I hope to hell Rosie wasn't there!

Reminder: Everyone's okay and I will not get sucked back in.

One text from John: _Look, it's okay if you don't feel like talking. Just send a text, let me know you're okay._

Of course he'd worry. Sherlock said he and Mycroft were there, watched and heard the whole thing. God, I still shudder knowing this. They watched me - exposed and raw...Sherlock pushing me to say something I didn't want to say, while I had no idea my life was in danger. My house had cameras in every room, all privacy thoroughly eviscerated. Nothing feels sacred anymore and, for now, I don't know if I can ever go back.

Then there's Mary.

We've spent a bit of time together, John and I. He would talk and I'd listen. He cried and I cried along with him. Mostly, he thanks me for looking after Rosie. I have fallen in love with her - shopping for her, playing and taking walks in the park..noticing mother's and father's with their children. I've been so preoccupied with my career, I never really thought about having children - just one of the many sticky points that caused Tom and I to break things off. Sherlock was the worst of it. But, there I was, thrusted into a world somewhere between godmother and surrogate mother, and thoroughly unprepared. I'm doing slightly better these days.

I composed a brief text: _"I'm fine"_ and continue to debate whether or not to send. I don't want to leave John worried, and yet I feel selfish and righteous in my refusal to cooperate with polite convention. They saw me exposed and at my most vulnerable...isn't that enough?

Then again, I saw John at his most vulnerable too. Quid pro quo.

 I add to my text: _"Gone on holiday, will text when I return. Give my love to Rosie"_ and hit send.That's enough for now.

 Nana has made up my bed and placed a flower arrangement on the side table. Pink roses, sweet pea, lavender and one pale yellow sunflower. It's pretty. She and Taid are off celebrating Lughnasadh, which explains all the earlier bread baking. Even the Goddess has to say good-bye.

There's a gentle rain beginning to tap against the window and Toby is curled up in his favorite sleeping spot...the down pillow on the window seat opposite of me. I knew he'd love it here. So do I.

 


	5. The Riptide

19 August 2015

 

Day 24: The Riptide

     How did this happen to me? Was there a moment when I could have decided differently and now be living a different future? I write endlessly in the pages of my journal, counting down the days as though there's some destination I'm moving toward. Like Christmas, or Boxing Day. This destination is different...I want to feel whole, I want to feel relief, I want to know it gets better - that this aching will end. I want to know that when I hear his name my insides no longer twist into a tangled and gnarled mess, or that my heart no longer strangles me with grief.

I spent the afternoon in my father's library...sitting at his desk, running my hands over the mahogany stained wood, touching his things, looking at photographs of he and my mother adorned in silver frames...they were deeply in love and fiercely devoted to each other. I had hoped these ghostly reminders would spark a memory of what his body felt like next to me, or to hear his voice and what he might say. I felt so safe around my father, as though nothing or no one would ever hurt me.

My mother named me Margaret Elizabeth Blake Hooper, after both of my grandmothers and a beloved uncle who passed away far too young. But, it was my father who called me Molly. If he were here the world would be set right again. At least that's what I tell myself. Is it wrong to think I would have been content taking care of him in his old age, listening to his stories, cherishing every moment with him and dragging them into infinity? I miss you, Robert Hooper.

I fell asleep on dad's leather sofa and dreamt of an inconsolable grief crashing against me like the frightening waters of a rip tide that refuse to yield in the struggle to break free. Sherlock was falling into a bottomless well and there was nothing I could do but watch, helplessly, as he disappeared into an explosive void. There would be no more victories...only an endless stream of salty tears haunted by the waste of battle; the vicious spoils of regret and shattered pieces of tender hearts of those left behind.  
  
These are the invisible wounds I carry - ones caused in the fray and I continue to wonder if they will ever heal, or stand as the constant aide memoire of my own folly.

Nan woke me...the grief in my dream crossed the barrier from sleep to wakeful cries that echoed through the house. I stared at her face...her eyes etched with worry. My breath hitched with anxiousness, along with tears that stubbornly refused to end. Her question was simple, _'What happened?'_

All the words I'd been holding inside came undone, and spilled around her like a river overflowing the confines of its bank. None of it coherent or sensible. How does one describe something that felt so real, but turned out to be an illusion? Now, that's a lie for you, Nan, because it was real. Every fucking bit of it real.

She continued to question me - for her understanding - and I don't blame her for wanting some kind of explanation that follows a straight path, with chronological order. But, when you get down to it, it's very simple - I love a man, who says he loves me, but will never allow this relationship. It's not that he can't. He won't. And, I believe him. The surprising part is I thought I had set aside all expectations a very long time ago and could live within the unspoken terms of our endearment. But, every wall that sheltered those terms came crashing down when forced to say I Love You.

The look on Nan's face, the uncertainty, I knew what it meant - how does one force _I Love You_ when it doesn't want to be said? I protect her from that truth...I've been away three years too long and she's worried enough. There's no reason to burden her about the dangers of another's life I chose to align myself with.

If she had asked, I would have been able to repeat Sherlock's words, verbatim. They are forever incised to memory, lest I dare to forget. The way he looked at me, his eyes intent, filled with a growing storm of emotion. His voice was choked and I remember his hands bruised and shaking.

He said he watched me ignore his call, make tea and slice a lemon. Desperate to save my life, he swallowed every bitter word he knew would hurt me, and in the back of his mind, begged me to forgive him. The finale came with his bittersweet truth...

 

  _"I love you, Molly. I have always loved you and for the first time, in a very long time, I am out of my depth. How do I keep you close and not give you what you deserve? Because you are worthy of so much more than me. But, I'm a jealous man and have never been good at sharing you._

_"I've seen it, much more lately...the disappointment in your eyes, retreating...stress shadowing your face and know that's on me. I have been hurtful and thoughtless to the one person who has loved me in spite of everything I have ever done and who has never once asked anything of me other than to do better. Most of the time I don't know whether to be ashamed of myself, or angered by your foolishness. Your only real flaw, as far as I can tell, is your abhorrent taste in men - I'm talking about me, by the way._

_"You should know these things: I think of you often and in my mind have made love to you a rather shocking and embarrassingly number of times. I hope you can forgive me for that. John still thinks love is a mystery to me, but he's very wrong. He doesn't know that most of my petty annoyances are really distractions that keep me from wanting you, sometimes so badly I ache. I want to hold you, bury myself in you, but if I touch you, I will have no control. So, I have to remember we can never happen._

_"I kept you at a distance not to hurt you, Molly, but to keep you safe. Always. Moriarty didn't slip up, I did. The person who is most important to me was never safe...you were spared for later time. So, today, what happened, can never happen again. I didn't want this...being distracted by you, romantic entanglement, allowing sentiment to overrule my better judgment. But, I haven't wanted to let go...and we can't go back now, can we?_

_"Molly, please say something."_

 

What could I have said that would have made a difference? His decision resolute...final. It was all I could do to say 'good-bye' and leave the protective haven where Mycroft deposited me while my house was searched and made clear of threats.

 

I'm tired, my head hurts, but there's a sliver of a waning moon hanging low in the sky tonight and I pray to Quan Yin. _Guide me with your grace_. I truly hope she wants me to succeed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were a couple of experiences that inspired the title of this chapter. First, a very, very long time ago when I took swimming lessons and learned the difference between swimming in a pool and the ocean. Riptides can be fatal, especially because we fight against them, instead of relaxing in order to break free. Grief is like that too. It can be consuming and holds the ability to pull us down even further when we fight it. Pushing against things that feel uncomfortable, or horrible, is sort of a natural response, like the 'fight or flight' response. But, sometimes we just have to let our emotions surface and have their say. 
> 
> I also thought about Devil's Snare from Harry Potter. The harder you fight against it, the more it strangles you. In order to break free, you either have to relax and stop fighting, or hope Hermione is around to cast Lumos Solem.


	6. Come, Let's Be Adventurers

22 August 2015

 

Day 27: Come, let's be adventurers.

  
      This morning I take pen in hand, determined to write about happy things. Evaluating serves its purpose, but I can't keep moving forward while only seeing my experiences from a rear view perspective. Eventually, that leads to a crash and burn. Eyes open forward is today's mantra.

Nana and Taid are going to see Gracie Slick in Brighton this evening and want me to tag along. It's fun to watch Nan sing, or Taid guide her in dance as they listen to the Jefferson Airplane's, White Rabbit. Music, by the way, they continue to find relevant. I try to imagine what they were like back in the 1960's during the social and music revolution, but I suspect it's like they are now, only a bit more wild. Okay, a lot more wild and free.

I love their stories of seeing The Beatles before they were famous, how Nan cut her long hair to fashion herself after Twiggy. The things they've seen and done. When they met, as Taid tells the tale, it was love at first sight. He proposed to Nana then and there - but not marriage, at least not yet. Instead, he fell to his knees, took her hand and exclaimed, _"Come, my Goddess, let's be adventurers and meet this world together, naked and trusting of her mysteries!"_   The rest is history.

I dream of a love like that - open and unafraid.

I went to the stables yesterday to visit Nick, my horse, who was named after Copernicus. After brushing and saddling him, we rode for most of the afternoon. I thought we'd start off slow, get used to one another again after a long absence, but Nick had other plans. He darted from the stables and didn't stop for almost a mile. He knew where he wanted to go and how he wanted to do it. I was the one that needed to catch up, gain my bearings and hold on tight in order to move in rhythm to the fierceness of his flight. And, when I found it, that perfect place of synchronicity, it felt like magic - open, unafraid and free.

That evening, Nan, Taid and I went to dinner at a local pub outside of Eastbourne. It was nice, until all hell broke loose. There had been an apparent boating accident, with one body washed ashore. The young constable on the scene was more than willing to declare this a case of accidental drowning, until I told him to contact his Detective Inspector and think of this as a crime scene until the autopsy report said otherwise. The bruising on the body was not consistent with postmortem injuries and faint ligature marks on the ankles and wrists suggested the victim was bound for a short period of time before her death. Whether this was relevant to the actual cause of death had yet to be determined. What was clear, though, is that this was not an unfortunate drowning.

It's all Nan and Taid talked about on the drive home...wondering what might have happened to the young woman that her life would end so tragically. I wasn't going to speak the unspeakable to them, but given the initial physical evidence, I wouldn't rule out sex trafficking.

The upshot of everything is that I received a call late last night from Detective Inspector Mark Taylor, who asked if I was interested in a job. I replied the offer was tempting, but that I'm currently employed at St Bart's in London.

Now, after sleeping on it, I wonder...maybe, if something part-time might work for me? My month's leave is almost over and while I'm far from being sorted from what happened with Sherlock, I do know I've been away from here, from Nana and Taid, for too long. I really don't know what I want or how it would work, but if I could be here twice a month, stay a weekend or two, it might be nice. Maybe John would consider allowing Rosie to visit once in a while? God knows there's enough room in this big old house to turn one of the bedrooms into a nursery for her - a room to call her own when she visits aunt Molly.

Why can't I divide my time between London and Eastbourne?

Come, let's be adventurers, I say, to me, myself and I.

 

 


	7. The Very Essence of Romance Is Uncertainty

24 August 2015

Day 29: _"The very essence of romance is uncertainty."_ Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest.

      My time here, at home, didn't turn out as planned. I thought I would be alone, something I've grown far too accustom, and yet found the opposite. I found comfort, healing, friendship and family. Most of all, I remembered I am loved.

I once thought Marilyn and Peter Wilcox are the closest people I have like family, until I realized they are family. As is John and Rosie, Mrs. Hudson, Greg and even Sherlock. They are my home and have my heart.

This isn't like the movies where everything falls apart and comes back together miraculously. I don't know what happens from here and I have no idea what life will look like, but I hope to feel better. Maybe one day, after all the fears subside, something new and better will take its place.

There are no absolutes or certainties - just people, living their lives - and sometimes doing extraordinary things in the most ordinary ways. We're born, we die, but how we fill the in-between lies within our hands - like soft, warm clay, malleable to our desires and imagination. I was recently reminded that it's not the big decisions we make that our lives turns on, but the small ones - the ones that are sometimes so imperceptible we don't notice the direction we're guiding ourselves until we get there. We come to a place that challenges us and call it fate, as though we never had a say. But that's a lie. It's more like the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, or the Wave Collapse Function. All things are possible, fewer are probable, but once a particular observation is chosen - everything else is off the table.

Sherlock had the bravery to say something I've known as true for sometime. I wasn't happy and it was time to face those reasons, all the decisions I made that led me here. There are so many things I could have done differently along the way, but none of that means I wouldn't love him the same...I might love him more because of it.

As for my house, I'll decide when I get there. The idea of it feels unsettling; I can't yet trust that I'm not the object of observation for someone's Truman Show. It's not a long drive, only about an hour and a half, but I want to be home by early afternoon, get Toby settled into a less-than-freestyle-environment, as well as feel myself around the place. Nan has already packaged food and vegetables from the garden...it's nice I won't have to run off to the market right away.

Mycroft Holmes has sent me three texts to contact him "immediately upon my arrival" so I can be filled in about the new security system. The smart arse part of me wants to ask him if this is the surprise bonus gift that comes with every bomb threat? You know, similar to how banks gives presents with every deposit over a certain amount. Would a regular security system even stop someone like this Eurus person, whoever they might be? It's not like I've ever had a problem with a non-genius intruder.

The day has been beautiful, with crystal clear skies and warm breezes. We'll eat in the garden tonight and maybe afterward build a fire, drink some mead and stargaze. I hope Nan packed a few bottles of Taid's mead. I need to check on that in the morning...will not leave without!

I promised I'd come home for Halloween, but Nan and Taid always have the most wonderful Autumn solstice gatherings. At least they used to. My favorite part is the bonfire and music...really, all of it. I don't think I can wait until October...I haven't even left, but I'm already being called back home.

     Until we meet again xo

 


	8. Starting Over

25 August 2015

 

Day 30: Starting over.

 

     Well, I'm here. In London, back in this house cleverly disguised as mine. Everything is neat and tidy, and I look for some kind of evidence that I was previously here, like dust or finger smudges, but nothing is amiss. Did I really leave it this perfect? Shouldn't it smell different from being closed up for a month?

Then I discovered the source of my misgivings. I opened the refrigerator to put away the food Nan sent home, only to find it had been somewhat freshly stocked with water, juice, cream for coffee, fruit and some vegetables.

Is my house not my own?!

There's only one person I can think of that would be audacious enough to do something like this: Mycroft Holmes. He did say to contact him as soon as I arrived, but everything inside of me rebels against being told what to do, especially by a Holmes.

Feeling anxiousness and panicked, I tore through my suitcase to find this journal and began writing in these pages with such fervor I forgot I left Toby in his travel crate! Sometimes, I think seeing a therapist would be a good thing, until I remember John's therapist was a murderous psychopath who wanted to kill me. Is nothing sacred anymore?

 _'What you fear the worst, do the first'_ is the platitude one of my professors gave me years ago about emotional resistance. Just because there's a paranoid part of my mind that wonders if Mycroft isn't watching me from the tower over which he sees all things, impatiently waiting for me to set aside my righteous indignation and call, doesn't make it easier.

I fired off a quick text instead, then began a countdown to see how long it would take before he called back. Less than fifteen seconds. Impressive. I thought it would take him at least a couple of minutes. The information he had to relay was quick and succinct. Since I had carelessly (his exact word!) left The Diogenes Club and interrupted the agents in their task to make my home safe, he used my absence to complete the work. It only made sense to stock a few things in the refrigerator to help make up for any inconvenience I might have experienced.

I honestly thought I'd have something clever to say, but the only thing I could get out was _"I don't want it. Any of it."_ I was met with momentary silence until I heard his simple reply, _"Excuse me?"_

I suppose Mycroft isn't used to being challenged, especially if he believes himself as gracious or magnanimous, but I also suspect he's not left in the dark very much.

The truth, at least in part, is that I wanted to argue and using him as a Sherlock stand-in was as good as it was going to get. He saw me, too, and there was no 'quid pro quo' to balance the scales of emotional inequity.

I read the words I've just written, and they sound petty, trite and utterly shameful. It's not Mycroft's fault, but just once - can't someone ask me what I want?

An agent will be by within the hour to go over the new security with me. It's a specialized system, provided by British Security Services with no monthly charge. Just who the hell is this Eurus person, that they would cause my future safety to be placed in the hands of the British government? When I asked Mycroft, he said nothing, other than informing me he would be _"most grateful"_ if I would sign the States Secret Act, like I did when Sherlock faked his death.

I hope writing about all of this in my diary doesn't count as 'spilling the beans.' If so, I'll be locked away in the Tower for the rest of my natural life.

Oh! I forgot to mention I finished getting my hair cut when Nan, Taid and I were in Eastbourne. It's a bit longer than shoulder length, with layers and highlights. I even have some fringe along my face. It's nice...I like it. I took a few selfies to send to Meena, who is possibly still squealing with delight.

I also bought new clothes and shoes in line with the coming fall fashion. Meena insists that this is important to do when starting over. I have to take her word for it, especially since she does it rather often.

And, now I wait, while deliberating whether or not to text John. I said I would, but I can feel my earlier vitality slowly slip away and it's leaving me wonder if I didn't come back to London too soon?

 

 


	9. Kinder Words Instead

30 August 2015

 

Day 35 - Kinder Words Instead

  
      Returning to work went much easier than I anticipated. Mike was ~~happy~~ relieved to see me. I did have a talk with him where I expressed my desire to divide my time between here and Eastbourne. Or at least the idea. There wasn't much he could say other than _'We'll see what we can do.'_ For now, that was enough.

 John and Rosie are coming over this afternoon, the first time I've seen them since my return. I never did get around to texting John, but it wasn't necessary - Mycroft did it for me, probably out of frustration in my refusal to cooperate.

The young agent showed up the other day, just as Mycroft said he would, ready and prepared to share his knowledge, only to be met with my slightly curt, but polite, _'Thank you, I'm not interested. Not until I have some answers.'_ The poor guy, who looked like he had just graduated from puberty, seemed at a loss of what to do. He thanked me for my time, walked away while making a phone call. Several minutes later, I received a call from John. It's not hard to connect the dots. He's been asked to talk some sense into me, or that's what I think. I'll let him say whatever he has to say, if it makes him feel better.

In spite of everything that's happened, everything I'm still feeling, I try not to be too hard on John. Not because of Mary's death, but because of my own participation in the secrets that withheld truths, and the lies intended to misdirect. They may have been orchestrated from a power greater than myself, but I played my part and he knows it. Not once has he ever said anything to me, or held me accountable for the pain he endured.

The latest white lie was after Sherlock's big case exposing Culverton Smith as a serial killer. Sherlock returned home from hospital and however it came about, John believed it was his birthday. Sherlock sent me a surreptitious text - _'John thinks it's my birthday. Play along'_ and so I did. I called John a few minutes later, told him that I forgot it was Sherlock's birthday and maybe, if he had the time and was able to convince Sherlock, we could meet for cake? John was thrilled and Sherlock grateful. It was a happy moment, I think more so for Sherlock than John.

Afterward, John went home to Rosie and I stayed with Sherlock for the next eight hours...tending to his withdrawal from whatever opiate mixture he concocted. I reminded him I could prescribe Suboxone, if it made things easier, but he refused. He didn't want to trade one withdrawal for another.

Most of those hours we sat in comfortable silence. I had a backlog of reports that needed finishing and I have a feeling Sherlock was more content listening to the endless strokes of the keyboard as I typed away, than having a mindless conversation - something he said I was never good at anyway.

We also played a few deduction games. He'd choose someone and I'd have three minutes to deduce everything possible about that person. We spent more time debating over how I could possibly guess some medical condition without any apparent symptoms, with Sherlock finally saying those weren't the kind of deductions he was looking for, especially since they could not be validated. I'd argue that they were perfectly reasonable deductions and just because I'm smarter doesn't make him an idiot. I wish I had a picture of the look he gave me.

After a while, Sherlock posed a hypothetical question to me: What if he decided to leave to go use? What would I do? I said I'd call John, but he insisted that was not an option. I had to use my own skills. I gave it some thought and confessed I was not strong enough to over power him, so physical strength was off the table. Then again, I do keep up with self-defense classes, so if I couldn't stop him, I could possibly slow him down. Finally, I said that I would ask him to reconsider, because I have no power to stop him from killing himself if that's what he really wanted.

I now wish I would have chosen kinder words instead. That I wouldn't have spoken from frustration and stress. I would have suggested a walk, scoured the papers for a puzzle he could solve - anything that would have showed him how important he is to me - to all those who love him. I wouldn't stop until he believed me. That's what I would do now. And, ask for his forgiveness.

I hope John doesn't ask too many questions. This is about moving forward. I might tell him about Eastbourne and ask if he'll allow Rosie to come for a visit. He can come too, if he wants. But, maybe, if the timing's right and he's on a long case with Sherlock, Rosie might enjoy her time there.

Choose kinder words instead, I remind myself. Our time here is but a brief moment that passes too quickly...Every action and word count for something.

 

 


	10. Landslide

9 September 2015

 

Day 46: The landslide brought me down.

     How do I write what can't be written, or express a sorrow for which there are no words? Loss feels like loss, regardless if it's real or a figment of perception. Some days are better than others, and there are times where I'd settled for feeling comfortably numb. If only for a brief respite. I remember a movie I saw years ago, _Eternal Sunshine For The Spotless Mind_. At the time, its premise seemed preposterous...why would anyone want to erase someone they love from their memories? I don't agree, but at least now I understand.

A lot can change in forty-six days. I rounded the corner on my way back from human resources and came face-to-face with him. There was a second where I saw a spark of excitement in his eyes before they softened and looked sad. He looked sad and at a loss for what to do.

Or, maybe, it was my own reflection being mirrored back upon me...

Greg, who was with him, said something, but his voice sounded alien and held no power to penetrate the landslide of emotional dissonance that enveloped me. For that moment it felt like the world stopped and my body floated into the unknown ether. I am so grateful I had the presence of mind to excuse myself and walk away.

I accepted a long time ago that I will always love him. It's not something I asked for with my conscious mind. Ironically, everything that's rational and logical within me rejects the notion of fate. But, love is neither logical or rational, and I will find a way to move through these changes.

Everyone is so careful, as though heartbreak is a truth that can't be spoken for fear of unknown consequences or the compulsive need to fix. Why the hell do we spend so much time fighting against what we feel, instead of being fucking real for a change? It is what it is. All of me is not broken and I'm not to pitied.

Maybe, one day, out of the confusion and awkwardness, something better will appear and the need for carefulness will subside.

I have a date Saturday night for the Museum Gala. It's not a romantic dalliance, but doing a favor for a colleague / friend, Evan. I'll dress up and feel beautiful...and for a few hours I'll pretend all is well.

I spoke with Nana today. Taid hasn't been feeling well. Nothing specific, just tired, but I asked her to take him for a check up, just to make sure nothing else is going on. Seventy-seven years no longer seem old and my desire to see him well and thriving is, in part, selfish. I need he and Nan in my life...I need their wisdom, their confidence.

It's no longer a question...I'm definitely going home for autumn equinox. Seasons and people change, and so am I.

 


	11. Oceans

25 September 2015

 

Day 63:  _The trouble is, you think you have time._ Buddha

  
    

     You'd think I'd be used to it by now. Death. But, I never am. As a scientist and doctor, I've worked very hard to get to where I am. I'm pragmatic, precise, and completely committed to the process of discovery.

Then there's reverence for the human being, the spirit who used to animate the body. Who were they? What made them unique? Did they give and receive love? What made them laugh or cry? What were their dreams and wishes? We're they happy? We're they safe, secure, or did they become a victim to one who would prey upon their innocence - and so viciously rob them of the life they deserved to live?

For all the research and discovery required, it's not possible to ever fully know what lies in one's heart. We see hints and clues, the tell tale signs and traces of a life lived, but not everything. That's the beauty and the mystery.

Nan had been trying to reach me, but I was busy...my work life more demanding than usual. I did what I normally do during autopsies...turn off my phone, get back to people later.

Except later was too late.

Mike came to see me in the scrub room, with a look that spoke volumes. The one where you know, instantly, that something is wrong. Peter Andrew Wilcox, age seventy-seven, died early that morning. The official cause of death was massive hemorrhagic stroke...complications from open heart surgery. I had placed Nan on pause, leaving her no choice but to pass on the burden of informing me of Taid's death to Mike.

That was almost a week ago. Taid was cremated and instead of a funeral, Nan decided to make their annual autumn solstice gathering a memorial celebration honoring Peter's life. They planned for a party and she saw this as the perfect opportunity. I can't help but feel a certain amount of awe as I watch Nan move through her grief with strength and grace.

I received a few texts from John offering his condolences, wanting to know about the funeral. I was a bit taken back because I hadn't told anyone, other than Meena, until I realized it was probably Mike. Still, I wrote back to say thank you and to let him know there was no funeral, but a small, private memorial gathering with their friends and family.

Tonight, I received a text from Sherlock telling me that he and John will be coming to East Dean and that they'd arrive late afternoon tomorrow. It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact.

I can't seem to find the words to describe the anxiousness moving through me, other than to say my stomach feels slightly twisted into knots. I quickly wrote back, only realizing afterward that my 'No!' was probably a bit too insistent, if not a woefully short response. I later sent another text, copying John, thanking them, but saying there was no need. I've heard nothing back, which adds to my uneasiness.

I don't quite understand the sudden interest. Isn't saying ' _I never wanted this. This, us, will never happen'_ mean letting go...moving on? We've barely spoken a handful of words since that day and I'm not sure they were even words, but instead a faint acknowledgement of each other's presence. Something's changed about him. I see it - there's a softness to his edges, but I still can't help wondering what the hell happened that day.

For all the times, previous to the past two months, I would have wanted to see Sherlock, having him at Nan's unscripted, autumn solstice-memorial-celebration-wake of Taid's life is definitely not among them. Please, let there be a God and may she keep Sherlock Holmes in London.

My head is swimming and I can't think about it anymore. Tomorrow is about Nan and that's all that matters.

From the window seat in my room, I look down over the gardens and they're really quite beautiful with hundreds of twinkling lights strung over the arbors of climbing roses, pergolas, through the trees and hedges. The tents are up, tables adorned with linens, jars of honey, candles and generously filled vases. The orchards and rows of giant sunflowers glow in the moon light, like sentries standing guard over all they survey. It's warm and the skies are clear...Nan and Taid would not have it any other way. The caters from Eastbourne have made sure there's enough food to feed an army, with the mead flowing freely and plentiful.

There's been far too much sadness this year and I feel like I've cried an ocean of tears. We now begin adjusting to life without Taid. I worry about Nan here, all alone. I hadn't thought about moving back permanently, but now...I'm left to consider the possibilities. All these empty spaces that Taid used to occupy. How do I fill them? What comes next? How do I move gracefully from one road to another? It's a question I haven't stopped asking.

With everything going on, I forgot all about Taid's precious bees...who will take care of them now?

 


	12. Arrived

26 September 2015

 

Day 64: _"I have been running, so sweaty my whole life, urgent for a finish line. And I have been missing the rapture this whole time, of being forever incomplete."_ Alanis Morissette

 

     It's funny how I still count the days. The part of me that sought order from confusion wanted time markers as a way to gauge my grief and healing. Now, it seems rather silly...although, in a way, provides a strange sort of comfort. If, at some point in the future, when I'm an old woman, living alone with lots of cats, I happen to read through my old diaries and journals, I don't think I'll find one specific day where I can proclaim: _'Here it is! This is the day I became okay again!'_

It doesn't work that way. I've always been okay, while not feeling okay; and I've always been whole while feeling broken. If that makes sense. And, I have to believe that all of this has meant more than arriving at some unknown destination, but instead loving myself? Honoring what's true for me, even though I feel wobbly and eternally incomplete. Nan told me that day in the garden..."If it was important, it leaves a mark worth remembering."

I don't need to count the days for remembering. There are too many memories beyond what can be tracked or numbered.

I love those who have died.

I love those who live.

Today, I remember that love and promise to be easy.

The birds are singing and the eastern sky is just starting to break with dawn. I scribble these words while cocooned in down, warm and far too comfortable to move. I wish I could twitch my nose and a hot cup of coffee would instantly appear at my bedside. I'll get up soon, though, take a long bath, go for a ride with Nick and maybe visit the beach to collect shells for the garden.

I'm so happy Nan's friend, Laura, arrived from Scotland. They've been best of friends for almost sixty years. All I can say is, Wow.

 

********************************

 

3:41pm

 

     Dear Diary - I wonder what it must have been like to live in the Regency Era? To be a character cast into a Jane Austen novel, imposed upon by civility to set aside personal grievances for social protocol? What if I were Lizzie Bennett, visiting the countryside, in desperate need to write a letter to my beloved sister, Jane? What would I say about these circumstances?

 

 

> _Dearest Jane,_  
>  _It is with an anxious heart that I desperately wish your company, consoling and providing me with your kind guidance and sound wisdom. Surely, if you were, I would not feel agonized by the presence of the unpleasant and taciturn Mr. Holmes. He has made it incumbent upon himself to attend the memorial of our dear Taid, of which there was no expectation, by family or congeniality, and his pretense is being given all the advantages of one who anticipates and expects familiarity. I am vexed in my desire to meet his vanity with deserved contempt, and he is deserving, Jane. Were it not for our Nan, I would not hesitate to unleash my tongue against his arrogance and contemptible pride, which passes for superior intellect. I am deeply distressed how he is fawned over and thought a respectable gentleman of polite society, when he is anything but. Do not judge me too harshly, my dear Jane, for if you knew him as I do, your acquiescence to my good opinion would not be offered in haste._
> 
>  

Clearly, I would have failed miserably as a letter writing aficionado. If Meena weren't late, we'd be sharing this bottle of wine, while I dress and hold her hostage to all my complaints. And, as my best friend, she's obliged to agree. With everything. It's the rules.

I promised myself to be loving and easy today, and was doing so well until Nick and I returned from our ride. I saw them from a distance, Sherlock and John, talking with Nan, and hoped no one noticed me among the busy waitstaff bustling trays of cakes and bottles of wine to their designated areas.

Two thirty is not late afternoon, although why am I not surprised?

We were found out, owing to an oblivious sod shouting, _'what a pretty horse!'_ There was a brief moment where I wondered if it would be rude to pretend I didn't notice?

Nan was thrilled to meet the 'famous' Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and questioned why I never told her I knew them? I did, Nan. I just never mentioned his name while you nursed me through endless tears and heartbreak. Seeing him, here in my home - my sanctuary away from him - feels awkward and unsettling. Why are you really here, Sherlock? Your movements are as deftly manufactured as the inner workings of a fine Swiss clock, determined to meet a specific agenda - and I know you're not here for the cake.

I'm grateful that John's enthusiasm provided a welcomed buffer.

Laura is doting on John and hasn't stopped talking about how much she loves his blog. She asks about his next update, but neither of us have the heart to tell her there probably won't be one. Although perhaps it's more for our benefit, than hers. Still, John is kind and indulgent of Laura's flattery and simply told her he's been busy. In the mean time, he shares a few short stories, which delights her to no end.

Nan and Sherlock have monopolized each other's attention, which is suspicious and surreal in equal measure. He expressed an interest and stated some minimal research into bees, so off they went, arm-in-arm, for a quick tour of the apiary. Nan suggested that while he was here, he should take advantage of my father's library to read some of Peter's research into medicinal uses, as well as female hive culture.

I don't know why I feel so anxious. Everyone is taken care of. There's enough to distract my attention from the unwanted, and still...I can't help but feel that everything I say, every movement I make, will be observed, deduced, and categorized into neat compartments as the proxy stand-in for the real me.

Meena still isn't here, but if she was, all these things would be said to her, instead of sitting here writing, when I should be dressing. So, I stare at my reflection, which stares back at me, and I wonder if I've made the best use of Time? I have more material wealth than I actually know how to spend. I am proud of my career accomplishments and have every intention to continue, but it's been a very long time since I've asked myself what I want. It's glaringly apparent I've taken on the decidedly bad habit of conforming rather than creating. Adapting, instead of initiating.

~~I want a baby.~~

Wait. What!? Did I just write that? That's not what I meant! I meant...family, people I come home to, who come home to me. I want intimate bonds, shared affection, make plans and dream about the future. I want to make memories, capture a million tiny moments and watch them evolve into the story of us. I want the walls of this big old house to be filled with conversation, laughter, and tiny voices filled with delight. Maybe a dog or two? And, at the end of my life, I want to look back and feel heart-bursting appreciation for it all. I wonder if I can allow that to happen here?

Right then. My hair is dry, no fancy braids or styles today...loose and free is fine. Nan is dressed in her usual, bohemian flare, although muted with autumn colors. She looks like she could be going to a Lilith Fair, instead of hosting her husband's wake. But, for me, it's basic black, which serves a more practical function, rather than the traditional clothes of mourning...such as not showing dirt or spilled wine...an unfortunate accident that happened at Rosie's christening. A bit of make-up and I'm good to go.

It's time to say goodbye.


	13. Into the West

     27 September 2015

 

_~ The ships have come to carry you home ~_

 

     When someone we love dies, the reverberation has no expiration date. Adjusting and adapting is an ongoing conversation we have with ourselves and the world around us. Everything might look the same, and yet everything has changed. There are voids that can never be filled, bridges we will never again cross and how we move through all of this, how we transition from being _We_ to _I_ , will be the chore of time.

 Nan and Peter's family and close friends arrived, including quite a few people from the local pub. Their musically inclined friends came bearing instruments for a full day of unscripted melody and song.

 I took countless photographs, not wanting to forget one single thing. I even managed to capture a few pictures of Sherlock smiling, caught unaware and relaxed. I wonder if the Earth is still spinning on her axis? John looked at ease, too, which was quite a relief. It has not been five months since Mary's death and funerals tend to stir wounds that time has yet to heal. I'm happy that he is well taken care of...the flowing pints of ale seem to add to his comfort.

 As the sun began to set, the strands of orb shaped bulbs flickered like starlight against a navy sky streaked with red and orange, while a few of Taid's mates lit the bonfire. The time to offer memories and say our farewells had come. Nan and I stood together as stories were shared - some that left us laughing, one or two that caused a ruckus with Taid's mates as to the actual validity of events, and a few that brought us to tears.

When everyone was done, a lonely violinist began playing the song from the movie Titanic. I can't remember the name and it doesn't really matter other than to say it was soft and beautiful.

Now, it was Nan's turn to speak and I will forever be grateful to Meena for filming it on her phone. I write Nan's words, memorializing them in my journal, hoping that one day I might be as fortunate to feel a love free of time and space.

 

 

> _"Immediately following my graduation from Edinburgh Uni - far too many years ago to mention - I came to London for holiday with my best friend, Laura. We'd been invited to a party up in Oxford and it was there I met Peter. He was a young, and very handsome Fellow of biology back then, and filled with endless mischief. If you were ever bored, you could count on Peter to set you on a path of mayhem and legendary fame. There's so much I love about him, but I am certain I loved that part the most._
> 
> _So, Laura and I were at this party, when I notice Peter heading in my direction. He had this look of determination, where no one, or nothing, had the power to distract him. Instead of introducing himself, he dropped to both knees and proclaimed so loudly that the party fell silent: 'Come, my Goddess, let's be adventurers and meet this world together, naked and trusting of her mysteries!' How could I refuse? I said, 'Yes' and he said 'Really?' I didn't even know his name until the next day. But from that time forward, we spent less than a handful of days apart._
> 
> _I thought our life together began then, but it's only in seeing things through hindsight that I realized something different. We started long before, becoming ready for each other. Everything we did, every dream, every choice we made, no matter how small led us to that meeting, at that ridiculous party, and I have not one regret._
> 
> _There was nothing left unsaid between Peter and I, except 'I thought I'd go first.' I should have known better - he was the one with the true spirit of adventure, never afraid to take a road to see where it led. So, now, we'll have a different kind of adventure, where he's there, flying through the clouds, and I'm here. But, I know, we’ll meet again. He always said our lives are make-believe, countless stories we tell ourselves about anything and everything. When one story ends, make up a new one and whatever the fuck you do, at least make it fun. A life without passion is rather dull, indeed._
> 
> _Peter, the love of my life - the love of many lifetimes - Namaarie, Melamin. Tenna' ento lye omenta"_

 

Until John whispered, " _What language is she speaking?"_ I didn't realize he and Sherlock were standing at my side, offering strength and comfort...something I didn't know I wanted until it touched me. 

I would have answered had my words not been stifled by tears. It’s then I felt you, towering over me, the soft gesture along my back, your hand moving in slow rhythm to soothe my grief, while you answered John in my stead, _"Elvish, from Tolkien."_

Nan reached out to take my hand, while we all raised our glasses in a final honor to Taid _: Namaarie. Tenna' ento lye omenta._

One by one, memories written as prayers, or the last bit of brew, were tossed into the fire as offerings of love and reverence, the smoke drifting to the heavens. Nan and I walked off toward the orchards, moonlight guiding our steps, to leave Taid’s ashes in small grotto surrounded by Magnolia trees and viburnum.

 I think of Gandalf the White, speaking to a grieving Pippin, as the Elvin ships prepare their journey into the west, taking Frodo with them. One day, Samwise Gamgee will join him, for he, too, was a ring bearer.

 

 

>  " _No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it. White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise."_

 

There was never the intention to stay over, but John fell tired and the two hour drive back to London seemed even longer. I gave him the guest room at the top of the stairs and thought Sherlock might like the sleeping room adjoining my father’s library. He’s stayed in my home enough for me to know what he needs and where he’s most content.

I head to bed remembering that the thing I thought I didn’t want, turned out to be what I wanted the most. I don’t know why Sherlock chose to be here, although I'm grateful he did. There is so much uncertainty in my life it’s hard to imagine what’s possible. But, maybe, one day, time will heal the wounds between us, too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Namaarie, Melamin. Tenna' ento lye omenta - translates to: Farewell, my love. Until We Next Meet
> 
> Namaarie. Tenna' ento lye omenta - translates to: Until we next meet.


	14. You're Already In There

_~ Thought I was over the bridge now ~_

    

     It was only because I couldn't sleep. My body felt spent, and no matter how much I tossed and turned to make myself comfortable, or soaked in warm water infused with salt and rose, my thoughts continued to race and struggled against the providence of slumber.

I sat in my usual spot, arms wrapped tightly around my knees, and looked over the garden and beyond. The sky was so clear I could see the pale moon light reflected on the calm waters of the dark sea. Far, far in the distance I saw a ship and wondered where it was headed. Who was on board and what were their lives like? Could they be casting their eyes to the shore, wondering the same about me, as I did them?

Before retiring, Nan told me she was going to Scotland with Laura for a short holiday and that we'd talk more about it in the morning. All I could do was nod...everything is changing so fast that I'm left without thought or opinion. I don't know what's best for anyone, let alone myself and, for now, there’s nothing I want to argue. What if everything is as it should be? What if nothing’s gone wrong, but coming together so perfectly it’s a masterpiece in motion? From where I stand I can’t see the whole, but maybe that gets to be okay too…learning to be graceful and appreciative through all the moving parts.

It was an innocent walk to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Chamomile, warm cream and a touch of honey. I liked that it was quiet and dark, with just enough light filtering through the french doors allowing me to see. The dying embers from the earlier bonfire glowed softly, it’s light reflecting off the glass in a kaleidoscope of colors, begging for company while it faded to ash. I grabbed a sweater as I walked out the door, the stone pavers cool against my bare feet, and so lost in my thoughts I didn’t see you…

 

 

*****************

 

 "Christ, Sherlock! You startled me!"

 

I gasped, trying not to drop my favorite cup. My heart pounded thunderously against my chest and you offered a simple apology, then watched patiently as I steadied myself, and stated the obvious.

 

_"Can't sleep?"_

 

With flawless synchronicity we both offered a silent 'No.'

 

And, there we stood, in the most perfect and awkward silence, unable to say anything as though the act of speaking might feel too intimate and open a vortex not easily closed. I sipped my tea, while you sipped a dram of something, looking devilishly handsome shadowed by the firelight. Knowing your powers of observation, I silently chastised myself for allowing such a careless thought in fear of giving myself away. I wondered, though, what might it be like to feel so at ease, so confident, that I wouldn't hesitate confessing I find you exquisite?

One of us had to break the spell that kept us there, quietly uncomfortable in the cool, autumn air. I took a last sip of tea and said good-night…it was best to leave you to your solitude. But, you called my name and slowly inched toward me; your eyes scanning and searching for just the right combination of words to speak.

 

_"It's beautiful here."_

 

I agree...It is.

 

_"Your father's library, it's, uh, impressive."_

 

Again, I agree.

 

You moved in closer, it’s what you do, it’s what you always do when no one is watching…your body becomes the solar rays that break down the barriers sheltering me. I’ve often wondered if this isn’t like a game of chess for you…observing me, so you can calculate what I might do next? Would I stand in awe, unable to speak? Or, would I step closer to you, meeting your move with my own, leaving you to think about what’s next?

 

_"Are you okay?"_

 

I stared into the fire wondering how I could ever possibly answer you. 'Okay' has become relative these days and requires more thoughtfulness than usual. I'm just feeling momentarily lost, searching for a different kind of touchstone, but that’s _okay_ , isn’t it? Not all aimless wandering is pointless. I heard you call my name, shaking me from the reverie where I so easily find myself these days. I offered a silent apology…I'm not ignoring you, it’s just that I can’t seem to stay focused for very long.

We found ourselves, once again, in our default setting – hidden in the shadows of secrets, away from the outside world, and I allowed the words to spill from me. I didn’t plan on saying them, but they slipped over my tongue, wanting release, even if it was barely a whisper.

 

 

"Why are you here, Sherlock?"

_"You left."_

"What did you think would happen?"

_"I didn't think you'd leave."_

 "That night...after all the things you said...did you really believe I'd stay?"

_"It had been a very stressful time, Molly."_

 "I wasn't having a good day, either."

_"You have no idea what happened."_

 "No, I don't. I'm left in the darkness. But, your brother had a state of the art security service installed in my home and you have me followed."

_"Not all the time."_

 

 "You need to stop."

_"Molly, your safety --"_

 "Is not your concern. This is my life, Sherlock."

I never intended my words to sting, but I watched you struggle to make sense of the rebellion you thought I waged against your perfect logic and reasoning. Remember that day in the lab, years ago, before you disappeared and faded into memory? You had me cancel my lunch date, wanting me to believe you needed my help. Your timing was impeccable, showing up as I was leaving, as though the angels were on your side and swift in answering your boon. You were deliberate in keeping me there, close by, uncertain if I might be offered up in sacrifice of the game. I saw a look then, just as I see it now – fear and sadness in your eyes. It's different now...we're not in each other's lives.

 

_"I could not bear anything happening to you."_

 "You can't keep doing this. You made a decision...just...just let me go. Let me be someone unimportant."

_"How can you say that? You will never be anyone unimportant."_

 "Find a way, because this place where you keep me...I can't breathe. I'm not okay...my heart is breaking and I need it to stop."

 

I left your mind spinning with a dissonance you hadn't yet wanted to face. Our combined sorrow became the combustible mix of loss and anger and uncertainty, a burden that seemed to viciously suck the air from you.

 

  _"You think I'm right. About us. That's why you'd leave, change your life, walk away from everything you've worked for."_

 

"I have doubts, Sherlock, but I would never ask you for something you can't give. I wouldn't do that to you."

 

You walked away and just as swiftly turned around to stand so close to me I could feel your breath, warm and unyielding against my skin. Your voice trembled with desperation.

 

_"What if I'm wrong? Would you tell me?"_

 

I have fought against this for so long, and moved to change my life in countless ways, if only to prove to myself I had some say in where choice might take me. I thought I could cross the bridge to remember who I was before you. But, you were already in me, from before the beginning, flowing through me, leaving your mark. Your truth becoming mine so powerfully it left me dizzy and spinning.

Stepping forward, into you, the calm from surrender felt deliciously sweet and freeing…your skin warm under my touch, smelling of the sea, spice and wood smoke. I whispered my answer in your ear, unstolen and willingly given, then placed a soft kiss of absolution on your cheek before letting go.

 

 "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

 

 


	15. A Case of You

 

 A Case of You

_~ I'm frightened by the devil and I'm drawn to those who ain’t afraid. ~_ Joni Mitchell

 

     I wonder what it is about Firsts? They cling to our memories like the fresh strands of raw, sticky silk, edging their way through avenues of time, always a reminder of that moment when we went from being one thing, to become another. This was our empty space, between the past and future, waiting for us to abandon doubt, dive in with inquisitiveness, and allow liaison as a First.

Curiosity is a formidable companion. Once acknowledged, she’s like the sea, her waves relentlessly crash against you, beckoning you to discover her dark secrets, and even in your surrender she will never set you free. You didn’t set me free, either, but in my surrender you clung to me like those strands of silk, your hands cradling my face, as you lowered your lips to meet mine, tongues gently intermingling and tasting of scotch. Coaxing me in deeper and more urgent, eager to make my breath yours...the assault felt feral and rapturous, eliciting the moans of mutual pleasure.

My body trembled against yours as you pulled away, your breath hot on my skin, leaving me bereft of your touch and desperate for all of you. I saw a selfish smile sweep across your boyishly handsome face, knowing my excitement pleased you and left you dizzy and uncontained as you lifted me to your hips, our bodies crashing through the night, blindly and frantically searching for a place to fall.

I felt you lead us toward the house, but I grabbed your hand to race us toward the small guest cottage near the stables, stumbling and entangling ourselves along the way. We were nearly there when the smooth path turned into gravel, biting at my bare feet, causing you to become my chivalrous knight as you swept me into your arms, trying hard not to laugh.

Another First – your laughter imprinted in my memory for all time.

You joked as you carried me over the threshold, practice for a honey-moon, stealing another greedy kiss as you kicked the door closed behind us, pinning me against the wall, divesting me of my sweater, as my own hands furiously fumbled with the buttons of your shirt and pants, desperate to release the pressure against your straining bulge. Your fingers snaked under the thin straps of my slip, guiding them over my shoulders until it whispered to the floor, puddling at my feet.

I stood before you naked, open and wanting.

Imprisoned in your arms, I felt powerless to resist the arousal of your imagination, as we explored each others bodies. Taste. Ache. Twinge. Lick…your tongue proved itself to be the masterful architect of seduction as I shuddered under your touch. This was our bridge to one another – sex, physical entanglement, raw, thrusting uninhibited and desperate for each other. You didn’t have to be careful, there was nothing to protect me from…not even yourself.

Pillow talk…another First:

 

 

 

>   _“Oh, Margaret,”_ you offered breathlessly. My head rested on your chest, where I heard the slow, steady rhythm of your heart returning to normal after the throes of unbridled passion. Our legs wrapped around each other like the musky scented forest vines that climb trees, you kissed my forehead while I made lazy circles around the scar where you’d been shot.
> 
> “What?”
> 
> _“Your name…Mar-gar-et. Not sure it suits you.”_ Was your post-coital tease.
> 
> “Gee thanks, Will.”
> 
> You chuckled your _“Touché”_ , leaned over to gather all of me in your arms and seductively whispered in my ear, _“Want another go, Lizzie? In the shower?_ ” Your fingers traced my breasts, then trailed down between my legs, where I felt you press against me, hard and wanting.
> 
> With an offer like that, how could a girl refuse. “Beam me up, Scotty.”

 

In this little cottage, we left nothing untouched from the discovery of sexual intimacy, claiming it, and every inch of each others bodies, for our own. I'm your person, and you are mine. And, finally, physically spent, I curled into your arms, safe and warm, watched you sleep, and fought against my own. Your mouth slightly parted, I resisted the urge to kiss you, not wanting to disturb your beautiful mind at rest.

The sun rays just began to break the horizon line, while the birds sang their morning salutations. After so many sunrises where I sat at my window seat grieving your loss, with the mournful cries of birdsong as accompaniment, I now wanted to believe they sang a chorus of Joy and Hallelujah.

It felt like a different kind of loss leaving you here, sleeping, while I carefully extracted myself from your hold. I found my slip on the floor where you left it, and guided it over my body, then shrugged the sweater over my shoulders. I remembered your words as you drifted off to sleep, _“I love you, Molly Hooper”_ , as I planted a tender kiss along your forehead, whispering the same to you, _“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”_

I walked back to the house, this time avoiding the pea gravel path, in hopes that John was still asleep. The smell and taste of you lingered on my clothes, my body and tongue, and I wanted nothing to break the spell. It had barely been a minute since I walked out of the cottage door, but with each step that took me further away, the ache for you intensified.

The house was quiet…the single occupant still sound asleep. I prepped a pot of coffee, made up a plate of scones, covering it with a glass dome and left a note for John to help himself.

I fell into my own bed, drifting into sleep before my head hit the pillow. When I woke in the early afternoon, you were gone. Nan and Laura said they saw you and John off, made an apology for my absence – claiming exhaustion finally caught up with me. They were right, and I hoped you smiled knowing you were the reason.

If people can be an addiction, then you are mine. You are the insidiously sweet balm that has crept through my veins, masked with a provocative virtue that held my mind hostage for all these years. I love how you smell, the taste of your skin, your voice, your mind and especially your heart; You’re what I like. I can drink you in, all day, every day, and still want more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. I've never written smut, or erotica, before. After reading, y'all might tell me to stick to what I know and leave the juicy bits to more talented and seasoned writers. ;)


	16. September

_~These precious days I'll spend with you ~_

 

 29 September 2015

 

      I saw Nan and Laura off at London Gatwick this morning…on their way to Edinburgh. I'm going to miss her while she’s away, but understand. She needs to be around people right now, or at least those who’ve traveled this long road with her. They have so many shared memories, she and Laura, and maybe going back home is just what she needs. And, it’s not like I'm here that often. I spent three years away from this place, although I have no idea why. It’s clear, however, everyone has handled things in my absence.

Nan and Taid were never really ‘caretakers’ in the true sense of the word. They rented the cottage from my parents and ended up staying. Everyone did their part and that included caretaking me. I always relied on them in one way or another, even peripherally, and maybe that’s what staying away those years was about. Distancing myself from those closest to me so I could prove something to myself. I’ve proven I can be alone, but prefer companionship.

When I was young and on occasion, we’d have movie night. It didn’t happen too often, though. My father attempted to be the best ‘mother’ he could and kept me busy with piano lessons, ballet and art. All the things a ‘well-rounded young lady’ should know. Sculpting proved to be genius, however, and gave me an incredible advantage in medical school regarding human anatomy. Thinking about it, I still love the idea of sculpting. Maybe I could create a small studio for myself here? Instead of finding a model I could sculpt Sherlock’s body from memory. Romantic musings aside, he truly has a remarkable physique. I haven’t done a bronze cast in well over a decade and not sure of the foundry status these days, except for that place outside Littlehampton. I like my life in London, or at least I used to. But, I also like thinking about simplifying and ease. This place tugs at me and I still don’t know which way to turn.

Anyway, movie night. One evening, around Halloween, the four of us watched Beetlejuice. Nan roared with laughter…I was only nine and not quite old enough to understand the more sophisticated, subtle humor. But, I was old enough to be hopelessly and dreamily in love with Adam Maitland, aka Alec Baldwin. I wanted to be her – Lydia – and have two benevolent specters watching over me, teaching me to dance while floating in the air. I had never thought about our home being haunted before, but I wanted it to be true. It even felt exciting to think about my own mother roaming the halls of this big, old place. We could talk…I could get to know her. Such a sweet wish… It never happened, of course, and I kept thinking it was a wasted opportunity. Aren’t all English manor houses suppose to be haunted?

I also guess that’s why dead bodies don’t bother me. At least not in a clinical setting. They’re not who people are. The body is magnificent beyond mere words, but it’s also transportation for something much bigger, more alive than we can possibly ever imagine. That’s the part that still excites me. Ghosts, but not Casper. Who are we, really?

Maybe that’s what journaling is about? Visiting with ghosts. Who am I talking with? Me? Or is there another part of me that emerges to offer insight to the other? Still, the house is empty and quiet, except for the occasional crackling log in the fireplace. I do love that smell, though. Pinion reminds me of the forest.

I used to think it rather silly that I journaled my relationship with Sherlock, especially back when I first had a ‘crush’ on him. He’s larger than life and sometimes burns so bright that if you get too close, for too long, he can feel all consuming. It’s not bad. It’s not good. It’s just how it is around those who live life passionately and with purpose. It’s important not to lose oneself in the coming together. But when you’ve had a taste of someone like that, it feels like the vibrancy of life itself. There’s no ambiguity in the living and it’s actually rather refreshing…until you hit those moments of overwhelming darkness. I love a man who has committed cold-blooded murder and, yet, I have never once questioned his motivation for doing so. What does that say about me? But, if he should play the junkie card, fill his veins with heroin, and tango with the grim reaper, I'm brought to my knees.

Sometimes I think John’s blog does the same for him. The experiences they have, the dangers so profound and at times, horrific and tragic, you have to find ways to make sense of things. I know what it feels like to be drawn into the dangerous game. Twice. Maybe writing about it provides that balance? It’s strange to think that one day the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson will fall into history and with more time, myth – because how could people like them really exist? Then again, I might be romanticizing them too much. They’re both a bit ‘not good’ quite a lot of the time.

 

I received a text from Sherlock about an hour ago.

 

_'Meet me at the bench on the South Bank, by Hungerford bridge, tomorrow night at 7:00? I need to speak with you.' SH  
_

 

 I don’t know why I haven’t answered, but I can’t seem to work myself up for a reply. I think I might be a bit scared. No, not scared…uncertain. I don’t know if I can. I could be held up driving home. I have taken so much time off work I have mountains of reports to finish. Why am I making this so difficult? We haven’t spoken since… I suppose we have to talk sometime, right? I did, sorta, slip away without saying anything. But, in my defense, I didn’t want to fall asleep, have John wake to go looking for Sherlock and find us. Or, anyone for that matter. I like the privacy of figuring this out in my own time.

 

Another text from Sherlock. Simple this time:

 

_Molly?’_

Probably rude to keep him in agony:

 

_“Yes?”_

_‘… SH’_

_‘Lovely ellipsis, Sherlock.’ MH_

_‘Tomorrow?’ SH_

_‘I'll let you know.’ MH_

_‘Why? You’re not at work.’ SH_

_‘I might be. I'll let you know in the am’ MH_

_‘What’s going to change between now and then?’ SH_

_‘Sleep.’ MH_

_‘Boring.’ SH_

_‘What should I be doing, if not sleeping?’ MH_

_“Answering me.’ SH_

_‘It’s a big decision. Requires rest.’ MH_

_‘…’ SH_

_‘Goodnight, Sherlock.’ MH_

_‘Wait.’ SH_

_‘?’ MH_

_‘What are you wearing?’  SH  
_

_‘Wool socks, jeans, two jumpers. You?’ MH_

_‘Trousers, shirt, shoes, housecoat.’ SH_

_‘Sherlock?’ MH_

_‘Yes.’ SH_

_‘What are you thinking?’ MH_

_‘Hoping for an answer.’ SH_

_‘Goodnight.’ MH_


	17. Satellites

30 September 2015

 

_~ Friends should stay together, code the world with the fugitive light ~_

 

      I figured out why I couldn't give Sherlock a definitive answer - and why I still can’t. I did send a brief text this morning: _'Let you know later'_ then shut my phone off. This isn't about being 'passive-aggressive' or playing the avoidance game. It's just...I'm angry.

I'm angry things came about the way they did. But, yet, at times I see this glimmer of perfection in the imperfection.

I'm angry that I felt ripped open and powerless, but felt the wave of relief once those words were finally said.

I'm angry about that night, when he told me what happened and pressed me to say something, the words wouldn't come. He had already sorted everything out...where was the space for me? I'm not blaming him, but he knew what happened. He had time to think things over, but I was far behind and couldn't catch up. Still, he’s unwittingly taught me to speak up for myself, become less mousy and tongue-tied. Actually, this is an ongoing lesson. Sherlock presents a very steep learning curve.

I'm angry that I still don't know the whole story. That’s on him.

Most of all, I'm angry that I should have been able to say _'I love you'_ to a friend, without fear of mockery, consequence, or even because it’s true. This is what I'm most angry about. I didn't know that my life depended upon me saying those words, and he doesn't know how many times I wanted to hang up, throw the phone, or how close I came to never fulfilling my end of the 'bargain' when I insisted he say them first. He doesn’t know that even before that phone call, how close I was to walking away. How _done_ I felt. This is for both of us to sort out…if there is an ‘us.’

I'm angry that I never got to express all of that. This is on me. See above, Molly…get your act together.

I spent so much time grieving, that I didn't look at everything else I was feeling. I know who he is and I'm not looking for blame. There’s so much I’ve learned from him about emotional perspective, things he’s probably never even considered and I'm grateful for that. Really. But, we’re also very different people. My heart rules my head. The brain isn’t the only organ that does all the work in this thing called Love. The heart is actually a neurotransmitter and informs the brain to tell the body what to feel, along with producing an electromagnetic field designed for interaction. From that field of energy, we’re quite literally magnetized to those who lie within our frequency. Like radio waves. Ricki Lee Jones wrote a song about it – _Satellites_. The point is, I can set aside quite a bit when focused on science, medicine, during autopsies, but I will never be able to completely detach myself. I'm not sure I want to. I want to look passed the predictable, the deducible, to mingle with the mystery and feel awe.

I think, sometimes, we spend so much time longing for something that when it finally arrives we’re not quite sure what to do with it. Or, maybe, it’s more about when a desire becomes fulfilled, something new immediately arises to take its place? We’re left, once again, asking ‘ _What now?_ ’

I have no idea how to do this, but I swear I see you and I…and a part of me is afraid you might not.

It’s been almost eighteen hours since you sent your first text. You deserves an answer and I'm ready now.

 

_‘See you at 7.’_


	18. Twilight and Mist

Twilight and Mist

 

            It was hard not to notice a storm brewing in the distance. The western sky hung heavy with dark, inky clouds just waiting for the precise moment to burst open with a fury of rain. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was an ominous portend about us… Still, this is where you wanted to meet, in this blustery twilight that felt more like the end of October instead of a week past equinox. Even the damp air, in the middle of the city, smelled of decaying leaves that left me longing to sit along side an open hearth, listening to logs crackle and pop, drinking something that warmed me on the way down. Let the rains come and the winds blow…

Though you stood at the rail, your gaze intent upon the water, I know you saw me coming. We were the only two people crazy enough to be out on a evening like this, allowing us the whole place to ourselves. Such as parks go. With impeccable timing, you turned to greet me with a shy smile that hid what looked like relief.

I shivered against the wind and you couldn’t help yourself but to adjust my scarf, as well as pull my coat more tightly around me. You guided us to the bench where I noticed you bought me coffee!

 

  “Is that for me?”

  _“Double cream, no sugar.”_

“Perfect.”

 

I have to admit, the cup’s warmth sent a soothing jolt through my cold hands. And, it tasted wonderful. The only thing missing was the fireplace.

You shared a few awkward pleasantries, but at least you tried and it was mildly amusing to watch you stumble around offering a compliment, without the intent of manipulating me to some ulterior motive.

 

  _“You look…lovely.”_

  “Thank you.”

 

There are moments like this when everything melts away. All the anger and hurt given a momentary reprieve. When you took my hand, entwined your fingers with mine, it left me wondering what happened? What changed? It’s not that I don’t like it…I just don’t know how to trust it. Or, you.

 

 " _Do you, um, regret the other night?”_

  “I'm sorry?”

_“I about gave up…that you’d meet me. Thought you might have some regrets.”_

 “I was surprised…never expected…but I don’t regret it. Do you?”

_“No.”_

“I just needed some time to think about something’s.”

_If you want to tell me…”_

“Really?”

_“Yes.”_

You have no idea how odd this felt. Or, maybe you did. I worked hard at suppressing a scoff, not quite trusting who this person was that looked like you.

 

 

>    “I was angry. It’s been two months, but every time I think about that call, I feel ripped open. Cameras recording my life…John and your brother watching. When I left I didn’t want to come back and I'm still unsure. You and Mycroft have made decisions for me that you have no right to make, as though I'm fragile or…an idiot, and I don’t even know why.
> 
>    “Saying those words…if anyone else had called, it would have been easy…easier…even if they were true. But, you, the things you’ve done… I should have been able to trust you, but I couldn’t.
> 
> “I’ve never asked anything of you, Sherlock. I wanted to live my life…even the mistakes. But, you reign me in…every time.”
> 
> _“You’re neither an idiot or fragile, Molly. You are remarkably strong.”_
> 
> “Ha! It doesn’t feel that way…it hasn’t in a long time.”
> 
> _“I am sorry. Please, forgive me.”_
> 
> “Who said, _‘Forgiveness is a beautiful word, until you have something to forgive’?_ I'm trying, Sherlock.”

 

I felt you squeeze my hand as though this was the reassurance you needed and, for now, it was enough. No matter what thoughts I had about this evening, or why you wanted to talk, there was nothing that could have prepared me for what you were about to say next.

  

>    _“I was here recently. At this park, on this bench. A woman came to me for help in remembering who her father murdered. She was planning suicide, so I took her for chips, we walked and ended up right here. On this bench. She told me her name was Faith Smith, which led me to that case…"_

 

You shot me a knowing glance. I will never forget Culverton Smith, or how close you came to destroying yourself in the process. You, at war with yourself, is maddening with heartbreak.

 

>   _"When I met her again, she wasn’t the same woman who came to see me…who I sat with here. Two completely different people. I was so high I thought I hallucinated her. It wasn’t until a week later that I found a piece a paper she gave me when she came to my flat. She was real. I examined the paper and under the luminescent lamp discovered the words, ‘Miss Me.’_

 

I flinched when you said _‘Miss me?’_ You don’t know, I never told you about all the nightmares I used have. I never told you a lot of things about Jim. Why would I?

>   _“John showed up later, panicked and dazed from being drugged – he’d been shot with a tranquilizer. The woman who posed as his therapist was the same woman who came to see me.”_
> 
>    “Eurus? You mentioned that name, when you came to see me afterward…”
> 
>   _“It’s what she told John that changed everything. She is my sister…a person I had no memory of.”_
> 
>  “What!?”
> 
> _“She set our home on fire, tried to kill me in the process. She also murdered my best friend, Victor, in a game gone horribly wrong. Eurus trapped him in a well, refused to tell anyone where he was, but instead coded the answer within a riddle…a child’s nursery song. I couldn’t solve it, no one could…I blocked it out, rewrote my memories. I was five years old, and Eurus four. She’s been locked away ever since. Technically, Mycroft told my parents she died._
> 
> _“As a child, I was told her genius was said to be ‘beyond Newton’. There was no place secure enough to keep her, so my uncle moved her to a secret prison called Sherrinford, where she’s been since very young._
> 
> _"Lovers and friends should know the worst about each other, don’t you think?”_

For the next thirty minutes you didn’t stop talking and I couldn’t form the words to speak, even when you looked at me, questioning if I was listening. I sat in stunned silence as you described the different trials, a coffin meant for me, the loss of life, Eurus’s separation from family and human interaction, the desperation to connect and not merely mimic. I hated what she had done, and grieve for her in turn. No child should have had to live like that.

But, you…aren’t you the surprise in your family. With the heart of an alchemist, you’ve created a different kind of philosopher’s stone, transforming loss to healing, isolation to belonging, and giving something to your sister she desperately wanted. We all need love…most especially when we don’t understand what it is. I remember the day when you wouldn’t even allow yourself a friend…

You brilliant man, how hard you are on yourself. Thinking this is the worst about you, when I rather think it’s the best. The part of you I love most.

 

  “Walk with me?”

 

So we walked, arm-in-arm, away from the thunderous clouds that were quickly moving in. You talked about Baker St, how it was just about finished, and that you’ve been staying there for some time.

 

  " _I got you something.”_

“Me?”

_“Yes.”_

“What?”

_“You’ll have to come to Baker St.”_

“Luring or enticement?”

_“Both.”_

 “Animal or vegetable?”

_Neither.”_

“I'm intrigued.”

_“Thought so.”_

 

A loud crack of thunder rolled overhead as bright streaks of lightning charged the sky with a spectacular web that would leave even the most audacious spider with envy. The misty rain began to fall as we raced toward the stairs, where I stopped on the first step…it’s not often I have the advantage of height. I want to remember this moment, looking into your eyes, seeing the you that’s hidden behind all the different masks you wear. Here, right now, this moment frozen in time, where there’s no threats at your back other than the weather.

 

   _“I'm waiting.”_

“For what?”

_“To know the worst about you.”_

“That’s easy.”

_“Hmm?”_

 “My abhorrent taste in men.”

 

These days, I find it telling that so much can be said without conversation, but through a look, or a glance. This much I’ve learned: Lies can be disguised and cloaked behind beautifully spoken words, but the body’s nuances, no matter how subtle, will always give way to the capricious nature of one’s intention to deceive. It’s a feeling that sinks like a stone, which even indifference can never reconcile. There’s a look you have, Sherlock, when I know you’re being genuine. I can see it in your face and how you hold yourself. We are so very different, but there are some things I trust. I trust you with my life and, maybe one day, I'll learn to trust you with my happiness.

 

   _“I’ve missed you.”_

“I’ve missed you, too.”

 

You leaned into me, your hands drawing my lips to yours, tasting sweet with rain and desire. I could linger here forever, breathless with intimacy, your body along side mine.

 

    _“Please come home, Molly. Come home with me.”_

I brushed my lips against yours and without saying another word, took your hand, led the way up the stairs and beyond the park.

 

_Fini_

_The Molly Diaries_

_Part one_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The forgiveness quote is from C.S. Lewis.

**Author's Note:**

> I've often wondered what life must have been like for Molly Hooper after Sherlock's fake suicide, especially as she was one of the few people who participated in his ruse. How did she cope, or even comfort the people who were grieving, all the while knowing Sherlock was alive? 
> 
> This is an ongoing series that will be periodically updated, but not necessarily flow chronologically. 
> 
> *** Updated to add post The Final Problem...Molly's thoughts after the 'phone call' and how she moved forward.
> 
> 'Nana and Taid' are literal translations for grandmother and grandfather, however Molly uses them as words of endearments for the Wilcox's.
> 
> Disclaimers: I don't own these characters. Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade are the creation of the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - while Molly Hooper is the brain child of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I'm lovingly borrowing them for my own selfish desires.


End file.
